Headstones
by mooyoo
Summary: Everyone has bad days...


Title: Headstones  
  
By: Rachel  
  
Email: mooyoo4@hotmail.com  
  
Feedback: Always appreciated  
  
Rated: PG  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. JJ Abrams and ABC and Paramount and whoever else own everything.  
  
Summery: Everyone has bad days…  
  
A/N: Only big spoiler is for Confession. This isn't really supposed to take place at any specific point in the timeline, just anytime a few weeks after the events of Confession.  
  
~*~  
  
I sigh for the umpteenth time and look around at my surroundings, feeling slightly ridiculous. Sparsely planted trees provide the shade that blankets the various headstones filling the large cemetery. Their perfectly aligned rows and clean, flawless faces denote the military theme of this particular cemetery, and despite the peaceful silence that reigns in the air and the picturesque beauty of the bright green grass and flower blossoms adorning the nearby trees, I feel uncomfortable here.  
  
I hate this place.  
  
Looking back down at the headstone in front of me, I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat and gloomily. I think about what I should do or say. I haven't been here in years and wonder briefly at the many more headstones that now occupy this area in addition to the one I stand before.  
  
Stupid CIA. God I hate this.  
  
I hate coming here.  
  
My mom comes here every so often. She used to ask me constantly to come with her, but I always refused. She used to drag me here when I was a kid, saying that it would be good for me to come see it. I hated it.  
  
It's not that I don't miss him or anything; completely the opposite. It's just…hard sometimes to think about him. And I do it almost every day. Coming here is just even more of a reminder of him and just…makes it harder to think about him and remember him without wanting to burst into tears.  
  
I hate crying.  
  
"Hey dad," I say softly, staring at the letters and few numbers etched into the large block of stone in front of me that spell out my father's fate.  
  
William Christopher Vaughn  
  
1946 – 1976  
  
Simple. Brief. Unnoticeable. What the headstone belonging to a dead CIA agent should look like. Something that doesn't attract too much attention. While other fathers get phrases like Beloved husband and father and Loved by all who knew him, yada yada yada, my dad gets his name and his all too brief life span. A hundred years from now, when I'm gone and my kids are gone and no one remembers the name William Vaughn, all there will be to tell who he was is this stupid headstone with his name on it. The only thing left of my father that will last long after those who knew him are dead is this piece of rock to tell people that he lived.  
  
It's so ridiculous.  
  
My father died for his country. He was a hero. Or so I've been told. Although I finally have some answers as to how he died, I still have no idea why. The only thing I have is the agents whom I've met since my joining the CIA who tell me what a "great guy he was" and how "well liked and respected he was". That and this headstone.  
  
But anyway, he died for what he believed in, and no matter how angry I ever get at him for having so a dangerous job that it took his life when my mother and I were not yet ready to give him up, that's something I have to be proud of him for.  
  
I'm proud that he gave his life for something he believed in; that he died a hero. But it doesn't make his absence any easier to bear. It doesn't make it any less painful to gaze at the words etched onto this headstone.  
  
William Christopher Vaughn  
  
1946 – 1976  
  
I sigh again. I'm not entirely sure what to say. "So, uh, have I told you about this woman I've been working with? Of course I haven't," I add quickly as an afterthought. "I haven't been here in six years, of course I haven't told you about her. Her, uh…her name's Sydney. I'm her handler. Met her a few months ago." As I finish my thought, I begin to feel slightly ridiculous. I'm making small talk with a headstone. I feel stupid for really believing that my dad can hear me or something, but I guess I wouldn't be doing this if there wasn't some part of me, however small, that believed that there was some point to talking to dirt and grass and a headstone; that maybe my father can hear me…or something. And anyway, I constantly see other people do this. I guess talking to dead relatives and friends is the standard protocol for cemeteries. I still feel a little weird, though.  
  
But I continue to speak to this block of stone as if it is my father. "Sydney's, well…she's…she's amazing," I finally decide on the words I gave to her weeks ago. "She's just an incredible person. She's…strong and tough and can really kick ass, you know, can definitely take care of herself. But she's also real and sad and loyal and a good person and…just amazing."  
  
Despite the seeming absence of any other living person within hearing distance of where I stand, years of working for the CIA has fostered a paranoia the runs deep within me and will most likely never be exorcised from me, so I keep my voice level down and don't go into much detail on the agent who's life is my responsibility.  
  
"So I, uh, I found out…about how you died," I continue, still unsure as to what I should be saying. What does one say, I wonder, to the father who has been dead for twenty-five years? Is there any standard protocol for that? I wish there was. Some kind of rulebook for standards and practices following the death of a parent at the age of eight would make my life infinitely easier.  
  
Shaking the ludicrous through from my head, I sigh angrily and say, "Jesus, dad, did you have to do that? Join the CIA? I mean, you were here and then one day you were just…gone... Why did you have to leave us? And now…God, Sydney's mother…it's like it was fate, she killed you and that led to the two of us meeting. And for as long as I live I'll never be sorry that she came into my life, but it's just…if you hadn't been CIA…if her mother hadn't…I don't know. I don't know what the hell I'm saying." I pause for a moment as I look down at my shoes, then back up at his name. "If the two of you hadn't been on opposing sides, maybe Sydney and I could've…just met one day on the street and… Well, whatever, it doesn't really matter now, does it?"  
  
I realize that I'm just rambling on nonsensically, speaking as my train of thought rumbles along the tracks in my head. But unsure of what else to do, I continue to ramble.  
  
"I don't even know what the hell I'm complaining about, I mean, I followed in your footsteps for chrissake; I'm a goddamn agent also, I shouldn't be cursing you for your actions. Hell, this could be me someday. Different first and middle names, different dates, but it'll be me in there someday. Stupid," I sigh. "This whole thing, all the spy crap, just seems so ridiculous sometimes, you know? Did you ever have days when you just felt like everything you'd been working for was just a complete pile of bullshit? Like none of the work you've spent endless hours doing will ever amount to anything or accomplish anything? Like you were giving up pieces of your life for nothing?"  
  
I kick at some of the dirt in the ground beneath my feet gloomily and sigh, "I'm sure you did. God, I wish you were here. You have no idea how many times over the past few years I've wanted to talk to you about…everything. Work and women and…I don't know, just stuff. I just miss having a dad sometimes."  
  
My train of thought comes to an abrupt halt when I hear a pair of feet treading through the soft earth behind me. Each step grows steadily louder, bringing their owner closer to me. I stop speaking immediately, suddenly embarrassed once again and hoping that the person approaching behind me didn't hear me speaking. I don't turn around to look, but years of CIA training leads me to believe that the softness of the footsteps means that they are being caused by a woman.  
  
So I stand here with my hands in my pockets, my gaze still fixed on my father's name, as my unknown companion stops walking a short distance away from me. Out of the corner of my eyes I glance over and see that it is in fact a woman, and a familiar one at that.  
  
Turning my head fully to look over at her, I immediately snap it back down to the headstone in front of me and speak barely above a whisper, "What are you doing here?" I turn my head slightly so that I can spy her out of the corner of my eyes.  
  
"Just paying my respects," she replies softly, not looking at me, but down at a headstone in front of her, one placed a couple of rows away from my father's.  
  
Now I look back up at her fully and say in the tone of voice one would use to reprimand a child, "Sydney…"  
  
She glances up at me for a moment, then fixes her eyes back down. "Are you okay?" she asks me quietly.  
  
I'm a little caught of guard at her question and I reply quickly, "Yeah, fine, why?"  
  
She looks at me for the briefest of moments, her eyes scrutinizing. She knows I'm lying. I'm generally a much better liar than that, but her question took me by surprise. I'm not really used to talking about my personal life and how I'm feeling and my emotions and stuff like that to, well, anyone really, let alone Sydney Bristow. As much as she confides in me, I still find it hard to do the same with her. It's not that I don't trust her…I just don't really like talking to anyone else in general about how I'm feeling. Which is one of the many problems that festered over the course of my relationship with Alice. Most of my previous girlfriends either didn't notice or didn't mind that I rarely shared my emotional side with them, but Alice did. And I loved her for that, but at the same time, I just…couldn't completely open up to her the way she'd wanted me to. So she'd eventually left.  
  
Sydney doesn't leave, however. She continues to study me for a moment before stating, "You've seemed a little upset the past couple days."  
  
"What?" I ask her, surprised that she's noticed the emotions I've worked so hard to keep bottled tightly inside of me.  
  
Her scrutinizing eyes now turned away from me and back towards the ground, she continues. "Okay, maybe not quite upset, but…you've seemed a little down the past couple of days. I don't know, not yourself. I just wanted to know what was up."  
  
"What, did you follow me here?" I say, my voice growing louder unconsciously. I feel slightly debased, that she would tail me here and accost me when all I want is to be in private. As much as I love every preciously rare opportunity I am given to see her, this is one time, and one place, that I'd rather be alone.  
  
"Vaughn, calm down," she tells me and I throw her a look of indignation. She replies with one of stern reprimand and continues speaking. "You were kind of quiet during our meeting this afternoon-"  
  
"What, not my normal, chatty self?" I interrupt, my voice dripping with sarcasm.  
  
"And you've been doing that a little more than is necessary, I've noticed," she replies easily, raising her eyebrows while continuing to stare at the ground in front of her.  
  
I raise one eyebrow with caution, but let her continue speaking.  
  
"I just thought maybe you'd want to talk or something. Or not talk, just…I don't know, be with someone else for a while." She turns her head slightly to the side and her eyes meet mine. "You're pretty good at hiding, Mr. Vaughn, but I've done this long enough to know when people I'm close to are concealing something."  
  
We stare at each other for a moment before I tare my gaze from hers to look back down at my father's grave and consider her words. Her statement makes her sound like a psychologist, but I know that she's only pestering me because she's concerned. The thought of Sydney being concerned for me, in addition to being labeled as a person she considers herself close to, would normally send shivers down my spine, but I'm still too immersed in my internal debate of whether to bolt or stay here and talk to her to think about that at the moment.  
  
I can feel her eyes on me, watching me while she most likely wonders what I am thinking as we continue to stand in silence. I briefly gaze up at the fence in the distance which leads to the outside world, and long to be over there, leaving this entire terrible place behind me and not come back here for at least another six years.  
  
I've never been very good at talking about myself.  
  
"Vaughn," she says in a soft, non-pressuring voice. "What's wrong?"  
  
I close my eyes briefly at the concern evident in her voice and want to scream that this is part of my problem; wanting to be with her so badly because of how amazingly wonderful a person she is; how she's one of the only people in my life right now that would recognize my discomfort and not simply force me to talk about it, but would make me want to talk about it; that no matter how much either of us wants the other, there's nothing we can do about it.  
  
But I sigh and I open my eyes and I don't tell her any of that. I'm going to stick to the main issue that has been on my mind lately.  
  
"I miss him," I say softly, looking down once more.  
  
William Christopher Vaughn  
  
1946 – 1976  
  
Looking back up to her, I see her nod thoughtfully and I continue speaking. "I've just been thinking about him a lot lately."  
  
"Having a bad week?" she asks quietly and my mind begins racing with thoughts of how the hell she knows that. At my questioning look, she says, "Whenever I've had a bad day or just feel crappy, I've always thought about how much I miss my mom and how much I just wish she were here so I could talk to her and ask her advice and…well, not so much lately, but…before…"  
  
Her face falls slightly and I know that she means before we found out the truth about her mother. "I'm sorry, I didn't-" I start quickly before she cuts me off.  
  
"Don't," she says warningly and I comply.  
  
We're both silent for a moment and then I say, "You're right, it's been a shitty week. Nothing really in particular, I've just been feeling kind of bad and thinking about him…been thinking about him a lot the past few weeks."  
  
She nods again, listening to me, and a strange feeling washes over me. It's like she knows what I'm thinking. That brightens me slightly.  
  
"When did he die?" she asks and, again, I feel caught off guard.  
  
"What?" I ask her, confused. "When I was eight, I told you that…"  
  
She shakes her head slightly. "No, I mean, when. What time of the year?"  
  
I blink at the strange line of questioning she is giving to me, but reply slowly, "Uh, it was late November." As I speak, memories of that day begin flooding back to me and before I realize it, I'm voicing them. "It was a few days after my birthday…we were going to go to a hockey game together…" It's now that I realize the detail to which I have given her simple question, but when I see her eyes connected to mine, waiting for me to continue, I rethink my adversity to sharing my personal thoughts with her and keep going.  
  
"See, uh, he had to go away on my birthday…some last minute business trip that he couldn't get out of, so to make up for it, he was going to take me to a Kings game. He took the day off work and everything, which was sort of amazing for my dad," I give Sydney a sad smile before I turn my gaze downwards.  
  
William Christopher Vaughn  
  
1946 – 1976  
  
Becoming suddenly uncomfortable with the ugly memories now swirling through my head, brought up to the surface by her question, I stop speaking.  
  
"Vaughn…" she presses gently, as if wanting me to let the memories confined to my head out, but not wanting to force them out.  
  
I close my eyes as tears begin to form in them and continue speaking. "He was supposed to pick me up from school, but he never showed up…I remember feeling really angry at him as I rode the bus home, thinking something had come up at work and that he would have to cancel. When I got home, there were a bunch of people swarming through my house, people I didn't recognize, all wearing dark suits…my mother was sitting in the living room, crying…she never cried…I knew something was wrong."  
  
I pause to remove a hand from my coat pocket and bring it up to my face, covering the tears that are now leaking from beneath my closed lids. "I don't remember a whole lot after that, just sitting with my mom and her telling me that my dead had…and her holding onto me so tightly…"  
  
I sigh softly through my tears and Sydney says, "Vaughn…"  
  
I barely hear her as I open my eyes to stare once again at this stupid headstone and say angrily, "I just hate him for it sometimes, you know? I hate all of this, I hate the CIA, I hate the KGB, I hate this cemetery, I hate this stupid, nondescript headstone, I hate that no one will remember him years from now, I hate that he joined the CIA, I hate that he died." The words that I have until now worked to keep from ever flying out of my mouth come rushing out like a flood before I even have the opportunity to think about them.  
  
"I hate that your mom killed him, I hate that because of them, we both got involved in this, I hate being involved in this sometimes. I hate that I can never…just meet you on the street or in a bar or something and ask for your number…I hate this." I finish my rant and raise both hands to my head, covering my eyes with them. As reality begins to sink back in and I realize everything that I've just said, a terrible feeling that I've said much too much, both in the way of my feelings towards Sydney and about the CIA, making it extremely easy for anyone that happened to be in earshot for the past couple of minutes to realize who we both are. What an idiot I am.  
  
"I'm sorry," I mutter softly to her.  
  
"Don't be," Sydney replies softly. "It's okay."  
  
"I'm sorry to lay that all on you," I repeat, still gazing at my father's name. "I didn't mean to flip out like that."  
  
"Don't be," she says again and I look up at her, tears still clouding my vision slightly. "It happens to everyone."  
  
"Do you ever just have one of those days," I sigh. "When you feel like everything you do is just a big waste of time?"  
  
"Constantly," she replies, giving me a sad smile. "But… whenever I feel like that, I remember that what I do is important. That what I'm doing isn't just for me, that it isn't just to get…retribution for Danny or to punish Sloane. That I'm trying to make the world safer...as cheesy as that sounds." She smiles at me. "I'm trying to make sure that what happened to me doesn't ever happen to anyone else."  
  
She opens her mouth to speak again, but the pestering sound of her pager suddenly interrupts our conversation. She looks down at it, then back up and me and tells me, "Sloane."  
  
I nod and shove my hands back into my pockets.  
  
She holds my gaze as she says, "Everyone has days, Vaughn…like I said, I have them all the time…but… Do you remember what you said to me that night on the pier? You can't let this job darken you…"  
  
I know she has to leave and at this point I'm sorry to see her go. "Are you alright?" she asks me once again.  
  
I shake my head slightly and finally answer her truthfully. "Not really. But I'll be okay."  
  
She nods and says, "You know, if you ever need to talk…you've got my number."  
  
I smile slightly at my own words and nod. It's now that I notice the small bunch of flowers she holds; white roses I think they are. She places all but one on the grave in front of her, I assume still trying to keep up the façade for anyone who may be watching us, despite the fact that I've pretty much shot that to hell with my little outburst moments ago.  
  
As she leaves the grave she has been standing in front of, she walks past me and quickly bends down to place the last rose at the foot of my father's headstone. I watch as she makes her way towards the edge of the seemingly endless rows of headstones and out of the cemetery before turning my gaze back down to the one I stand before.  
  
William Christopher Vaughn  
  
1946 - 1976  
  
I'm nowhere near feeling good, but my brief meeting with Sydney has brightened me a little bit. I hate to admit it, but it felt good to talk to her. I actually feel better talking to someone else about myself. That's new.  
  
I sigh quietly and say to the headstone, "I told you she was amazing."  
  
This job makes you feel like you've hit absolute rock-bottom sometimes. It makes you feel like the amount of evil that exists in the world far out ways the amount of good. It makes you feel useless and angry and depressed all at the same time.  
  
But she was right. The reason I do this is to prevent another child from loosing their mother or father. I'm trying to make sure no one else has to come to this damn cemetery and look at a headstone like this one.  
  
William Christopher Vaughn  
  
1946 – 1976  
  
That was one of the reasons I joined the CIA in the first place. Your typical hero-complex; wanting to make the world a better place, blah blah blah. But, more specifically, wanting to make it so that other families don't have to go through what mine did. I think I've forgotten that over the past few years; let my reasons get away from me.  
  
Sighing, I squint my eyes against the tears that threaten to fall from them once again and point my head upwards, trying to force them back in.  
  
I hate crying.  
  
I look back down at my father's name for a moment before I leave my place. Touching the headstone briefly, I say softly, "Thanks dad," and make my way towards the exit of the cemetery, leaving the headstone behind me.  
  
-end-  
  
I know the ending was ridiculously cheesy, sorry about that. I got stuck on how to end it and I'm just generally no good at endings…hope you liked it otherwise…:) 


End file.
